


Delicate

by toejamfootball



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, otherwise known as the missing scene in episode twelve, this is the one where derek tries to put him back together again, we get to watch stiles fall apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toejamfootball/pseuds/toejamfootball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t even restrain him because he wasn’t really that much of a risk. That hurts too. And then nobody came for him - and it hurt to swallow that truth down. It felt like swallowing razor blades; choking, bleeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate

Things quiet down after Gerard disappears, after Jackson overcomes the Kanima. The silence is startling and Stiles expects to breathe easier. This is peacetime, but the silence sets him on edge. It makes his chest tighten and the suffocating thickness in his throat never truly goes away. This is true hyper vigilance, because the threat is gone. 

Two days have passed when Derek goes to him. They don’t talk much. Derek doesn’t talk very good, and Stiles doesn’t talk very good either. Derek is full of pockets of silence, and Stiles talks too much because his mind refuses to slow down and he’s really not that good with silence. But he’s good with it right now. He’s been good with it for the past two days. He’s moping, more or less.

Lydia doesn’t really care about his feelings for her. She has every right to disregard them, but it still makes him feel like shit. Scott carried out a plan that didn’t involve Stiles at all. A plan he didn’t tell Stiles about at all, which is great. Except for the massive portion of it that makes Stiles feel like shit. He feels even crappier for feeling like shit, because Scott pulling his head out of Allison’s ass long enough to come up with such a genius plan? He should be ecstatic and he isn’t quite sure why he’s not.

Nobody came for him. That’s probably the shittiest part about feeling like shit. Gerard didn’t just punch him a few times. He punched Stiles until his arm started trembling with the force of it. Until he had to take a break and pop a few more pills and rattle off about how nobody was even looking for him. How he was a missing pawn, a missing human and he wasn’t really all that important in the grand scheme of everything right now. A human so pathetic he got his ass kicked by an old man. That’s when he sat back and turned Stiles over to two of the hunters that seemed to materialize at their own convenience. 

And they didn’t punch Stiles. They kicked him - anywhere they could reach. His face, his ribs, his back. Stiles had rolled into a fetal position and stayed there until they stopped because what else could he do. They didn’t even restrain him because he wasn’t really that much of a risk. That hurts too. And then nobody came for him - and it hurt to swallow that truth down. It felt like swallowing razor blades; choking, bleeding. He was kicked out of the house after that, left on their door step. He walked back to the school for his jeep, feeling the ache in his heart much deeper than the ache in his bones.

Nobody came for him.

Derek comes two days later. Stiles isn’t really back to his normal self. His mask has slipped too far for him to really even fumble a catch. He keeps walking over it every time he opens his mouth. Everytime he bends to reclaim it. It’s probably in pieces. This mask he spent years ironing out, years perfecting. The perfect defense. The perfect protection. Broken.

Derek doesn’t say anything to him. There are no apologies. There’s no words at all. And Stiles isn’t even really sure he deserves an apology. Nobody came. But there was this issue with the Kanima, and Gerard. And he needs to remember that. He needs to remember that he has no right to be angry, because there were bigger issues, and it’s not like he died or anything.

Even though nobody knew that, really, because nobody came.

Gerard had told him that too, after he took a kick to the temple so hard his vision blacked out for a moment. Gerard had told him that it was funny - sad, pitiful, hilarious - that all of his friends, all these monsters, these abominations - that they were all concerned about Gerard. Looking for Gerard. A way to beat Gerard. It was funny that Gerard was more important to them in this single moment - the single most important moment of Stiles’s life - that they couldn’t be bothered finding Stiles. Scott knows his scent. More like a stench, right? Gerard had mocked. So where is he now? He couldn’t take half an hour out of his busy schedule to find Stiles’s scent? Gerard had laughed at him, and he hadn’t recoiled when he took a kick to the gut so hard he choked on his vomit before he managed to roll over enough to puke. The laughter borrowed deep into his bones, until he could feel it. Until it was under his skin.

Derek shucks off his shoes when he reaches Stiles’s bed. This great beast of a man. A man with a presence so large, it can feel the room, or disappear entirely - at his own will. He crawls into the bed with Stiles and wraps his arms around Stiles and pulls him back against that warm chest. Stiles tenses automatically because he hurts. He hurts so bad sometimes, he wants to scream. He wants to scream because it feels like when he’s talking, everybody’s default is to tune him out, until they need something researched. Until they need his brain. 

They’re both still. Stiles’s heart beats slightly faster than Derek’s, but it’s a side affect from the ADHD. They’re both quiet, as their breathing fills the room until there’s not another sound in the entire world. And then all at once, all of those broken pieces Stiles has been duct taping and gluing together - pieces so mangled and so distorted, he knows he’s missing a few but the pieces stopped forming a picture years ago and he isn’t quite sure which ones he’s lost; which ones he assembled wrong. All at once those broken pieces shatter and he crumbles back against Derek, caving in on himself. His breathing hitches, hard and heavy, and he sobs. And Derek stays there. Derek Hale - capable of bitch faces and anger - he stays there, an immovable force. 

Derek’s arms around him tighten slightly, holding him firmer, harder against his chest, holding him together as Stiles shakes apart. Nobody came for him. He’s drowning, and he’s holding his breath, in complete agony waiting for that rescue. Waiting for the surface. Waiting for that one last blessed breath. And nobody came for him. He can’t breathe. He can’t think anymore.

He’s losing his edge. What makes him special, useful, irreplaceable. It’s all gone, or going. And he cries. He mourns that loss. He mourns the loss of a lot of things that day. 

Derek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t call him pathetic, like he half expects Derek to. He doesn’t tell Stiles to suck it up - that some people have it worse, even though he truly doubts Derek would ever be crass enough to invalidate the pain of another. But he half expects to hear Derek remind him that Derek has lost his entire family, and that Derek has nothing and no one, and what right does Stiles have to cry. Like a baby. Like a human. Like a fragile, broken boy. A liability. That nobody has the time to rescue. A liability.

Derek doesn’t apologize - because there is no place here for apologies, genuine or otherwise. Derek doesn’t shush him, or soothe him or calm him down. Derek doesn’t do anything ,and it’s the greatest thing Derek has ever done. He’s simply there, a reassuring force at Stiles’s back, holding him. And this time, maybe this once, that’s enough.

When he’s done, when he’s reduced to puffy red eyes and sniffling through a stuffy nose, Derek moves. He presses Stiles over onto his back and moves closer, spreading an arm across Stiles’s stomach and burying his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck. He blankets Stiles’s body with his own, and begins to reassemble the pieces, iron them out, paste them back together, agonizing shard by agonizing shard. His hand smoothes across Stiles’s temple, and then up and over his short hair. The calloused pads of his fingers massage Stiles’s head; they smudge away smeared tears; they soothe irritated skin raw from crying; they bruise over the ridges and bumps of skin slowly knitting itself back together, and across lips that refuse to heal because he can’t bare to sit still long enough to let them. 

Fingers trail over the edge of his chin and drum down his throat. They map out his collar bone and count his ribs, one by one. Fingers dig into and caress every knob of his spine; they curve around his hips and then wrap back up around his back and holds him close, pressed into a full body embrace. Those fingers say ‘this is good. This is good enough. You did good. You did enough. You can rest now. You can sleep. You deserve it. You deserve this one thing. Here is a life line.’ 

They say, “I’m sorry.” And Stiles thinks that’s enough too. He listens to Derek’s calm, even breathing. He lets the drowsy effect of crying for so long, and so hard draw him beneath a blanket of sleep. He lets the weight of Derek’s body ground him. He feels heavy, sinking into sleep as he would into quicksand; probably breathing just as easily too. But this is good. This is enough.


End file.
